


The Pieces

by LearnedFoot



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coffee, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Sharing a Bed, This is probably not a healthy way to use BARF technology, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-07 04:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: The thing no one tells you about being resurrected is that while being alive again is nice, a lot of the rest of it is pretty awful, starting with the part where you wake up and have no idea what the hell is going on.Or: Tony is resurrected, and he doesn’t deal with it well.





	The Pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syrupwit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/gifts).

> This was mostly inspired by your “untitled Tony Stark angst request,” but with a heavy dose of P/T sprinkled on top, because reasons. Fully canon compliant, including FFH. I hope you enjoy!

The thing no one tells you about being resurrected is that while being alive again is nice, a lot of the rest of it is pretty awful, starting with the part where you wake up and have no idea what the hell is going on.

Or maybe that’s just Tony.

Bear with him and think about it for a minute. One second, you’re dying on a battlefield, pain like you’ve never felt burning to your core. You’re not happy about it, or even content. It’s doesn’t feel like the book closing on the right page or the perfect bow to tie up your life. But at least you know the universe is safe, the people you love are alive. At least you understand what’s going on: you made a heroic and necessary move, did something your body couldn’t handle, and now it’s over. It’s the natural order of things, and after five years of an unthinkable apocalypse, there’s something comforting about the world making sense again.

But then—_wham_—next minute you’re lying naked in the same field where you just died. Except it’s not the same at all. It’s no longer teaming with heroes. The grass, moments ago churned to mud by battle, is perfectly manicured. Instead of your friends, weary, bruised and almost but not quite beaten, you’re surrounded by a crowd of people in sunhats and “I heart New York” shirts gawking and taking photos. 

Wouldn’t your reaction be _What the fuck_? Tony feels like it’s not just him.

***

It’s not waking up naked at what turns out to be a memorial to himself and his fallen friends that really fucks with Tony’s head, though. It’s the part that comes after. The part where he finds out it’s been five years. The part where he’s told firmly that his daughter has grown up with therapists and grief counselors and so _no_, he can’t run straight to her, because they need to introduce the idea of him slowly, in a way she can understand.

The part where—hinted at but not quite said—no one is entirely sure they can trust him. Oh, they ask the intimate questions that only he can answer, are convinced it’s really him. But how, and why? And can they be sure he won’t suddenly turn into an abomination, a monstrous eldritch horror, or maybe just disappear into dust without notice?

And then there’s the part where his wife is wearing an engagement ring, and it’s not the one he gave her.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” she tells him. “You were gone, and I love her.”

What she doesn’t love is his suggestion they try a threesome (he was _joking_, okay? Did people forget he likes to joke?), but she does promise they’ll find a way to make a family work. He’ll get to be Morgan’s dad; he’ll get to be Pepper’s friend. Once they figure out what happened to him, how and why he’s back, ensure he’s not going to explode or disappear, he’ll get all of it.

“Sounds great,” he lies. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not that he’s ungrateful to be alive again. How could he be, when it means he’ll get to see his daughter, eventually, and eat a cheeseburger, now?

Still, he feels like he’s allowed to be a little upset about how it’s all panning out.

***

Since his old home has been sold and Pepper’s place is out, they stick him in the Avengers tower. The original, which someone bought back and redecorated for the new crew. It’s just off enough to be awful, like a dream where you’re home, but the furniture is wrong and nothing is exactly where it should be. He doesn’t recognize most of the people they pass as Rhodey guides him to a spare room that will, apparently, be his now.

“The new guard,” he explains, as Tony stops to stare at a young woman with electricity sparking from her fingertips. “A lot has changed.”

“I’m getting that.”

Rhodey claps him on the back and doesn’t try to tell him it’s going to be okay. A good demonstration of why he’s been Tony’s best friend for so many years he’s lost count. 

Tony used to have a private suite, and Rhodey promises they’re working on finding more space for him, but for the time being he’s relegated to just a room, on a hall, like everyone else. “We’re putting you with the OGs,” Rhodey assures him. But even that ends up disconcerting, because the OGs now are people Tony was used to thinking of as the new kids. He sees their names on their doors has he passes: Wanda Maximoff, Sam Wilson—

Peter Parker.

He stops, staring. “Is he…is he here?” he asks, heart beating faster. He’d only seen Peter for a few moments before he died, only had one brief battlefield hug with which to try to take in the enormity of his return. The fact of Peter as someone alive, solid and touchable, still feels as false and strange as his own existence, but infinitely more essential. 

“In Boston. He’s at MIT. I like to think I had something to do with that, but I’m pretty sure he’s just following in your footsteps.” Rhodey squeezes Tony’s shoulder. “He asked for us to put you next door. He’ll be in tomorrow—wanted to leave tonight but he has a test.” He chuckles, warm in the way everyone who knows Peter is. Which means he knows Peter now. Another thing that’s changed. “He’s a good kid.”

Tony presses his fingertips against the nameplate, tracing the groove of the name. “Yeah, he is.”

Then his mind catches up to what Rhodey had said. Peter, here, tomorrow. For the first time since he woke up, he can feel a smile stretching on his face, moving the muscles in a way that feels unfamiliar. Peter will be here tomorrow: there’s another big check in the “reasons to be glad to be alive” column.

***

“You’re alive.”

A person who is definitely Peter, but also not—taller and broader and an _adult_, sharp jaw, blazer over the inevitable science pun t-shirt, as if somewhere along the line he learned to dress himself—stares at Tony from across the conference room Rhodey has put them in. It’s an oddly sterile place to have such an important reunion.

“You’re alive,” Peter repeats. Even his voice is a touch deeper. “I _knew_, I saw the news, but…wow. Is it really you?”

“As far as I know.” Tony wants to toss the inconvenient rolling chair between them away, spring across the room and pull Peter into another hug, like the one that still feels so fresh in his memory. But he thinks it’s Peter’s turn to make that move, if he wants to, and Peter is completely still, just staring and staring. “I was kind of expecting a more excited reaction here, kid.”

Peter’s breath catches, and then his face melts into something soft and warm. “I’m excited,” he whispers. “I just—” Suddenly he jumps, literally jumps, across the space between them, landing inches away. He still doesn’t hug Tony, just places a shaking hand on his forearm, squeezing it. “Tell me something only you would know.”

“Pete, I’ve already been over this with—”

“_Please_.” His voice trembles. “I know they did, but please Mr. Stark? You don’t understand, some of the things that happened—” He cuts off, eyes filling with tears. “Anything, just anything. Please.”

_What happened? _Tony immediately wants to demand. _Who do I have to kill? _But that’s not what Peter is asking for, and he wants to give him what he needs. Maybe it’s because he’s been thinking about hugs, but the first thing that comes to him is: “On the way back from Germany, you thought I was giving you a hug. I said I was just going for the door. I think I told you we weren’t there yet. That was a lie, by the way. It was definitely a hug.”

Peter laughs, a squeaky, wet sound. “I knew it.”

And then his arms are around Tony, his face buried in his neck. He shakes in the embrace. It’s only when he starts to feel the damp on his shirt that Tony realizes he’s crying. He holds him tight, and keeps his own tears to himself.

***

Peter stays the weekend. They don’t see each other as much as Tony wants—though what he wants is every second of the day. Peter is the only person, besides Rhodey, he feels comfortable with. Everyone else looks at him like he might evaporate at any moment.

But he doesn’t get what he wants. He has to be run through a battery of medical tests, and Peter has, apparently, a battery of very different tests to study for. There’s press to deal with: the photos are already out there—tourists have no respect, who would’ve thought?—so there’s no putting it off. And financial stuff, too. Tony doesn’t really give a fuck, but Pepper—who swept Morgan out of school for an impromptu trip to the internet-free wilderness, but brought her phone and tablet and set up basecamp there—insists he needs to get on it as soon as possible.

“The good news is, because of the blip there are now procedures in place for how to deal with this,” she says, with a brusque formality that’s like being shot in the heart. Every second talking to her is a second of the universe turning the screws, mocking: his life isn’t what it was, his life will never be what it was. “You left most of your money to me, which makes it easier. Of course I’ll transfer it back, but a lot of it is tied up—”

“And you get to keep some,” he points out. He sounds angry when he doesn’t mean to, but this is all too much, numbers he doesn’t care about, laws he’s not interested in learning, conversations he doesn’t want to have when he’s still getting used to moving around in the world, every step a surprise. “We were married for five years. I’m pretty sure you get to keep some.”

“Tony, you don’t have to—”

“Pep, I really don’t give a crap. Just do what you think is right and don’t make me think about this anymore.”

She’s affronted; her expression is stark and clear even through the video chat. “Fine,” she snaps. “Get some sleep.”

It’s not sleep Tony needs, it’s for his life to make any sense.

***

Even with all the meaningless crap, Tony finds time to spend with Peter, enough to learn about his life. He’s at MIT, and doing well. He lights up when he talks about his classes, constantly going down delighted tangents as he explains the details of projects he’s worked on. Tony likes that; it’s comforting to hear his ramble, especially when that ramble is about robots and chemistry experiments. Two things Tony knows and loves and understands: Peter Parker, bright and enthusiastic, and science.

What he likes less is when Peter tells him about the other part of his life. Spider-Man.

Tony doesn’t ask him about it, figures he’ll get to it when he wants to. When he wants to ends up being Saturday night, after dinner, hunched in an armchair in a common room that’s not supposed to be private, but which someone—probably Rhodey—has cordoned off for them.

He used to ramble about this part of his life, too, but now he’s measured and deliberate as he opens up about the man who created illusions. Quentin Beck—an ex-SI employee, the guy who helped develop BARF. Tony remembers him: tall, handsome, but with a manic energy that welled up in his eyes; he gave you chills if you looked too closely. Tony can’t say he’s surprised he went off the rails. When Peter’s voice cracks at the memories, he also can’t help but blame himself for not keeping closer tabs on the guy. He should’ve know.

“And then he revealed my identity to the whole world, so now everyone knows who I am,” Peter concludes. He looks into his hands as he adds, “That’s…different.”

As Tony watches him talk, he realizes it’s not just the chiseled jaw or broader shoulders that make Peter seem so much older. It’s the pain behind his eyes, the worry lines across his forehead. The way he sighs: not the petulant, dramatic sound of a teenager, but heavy and weighed down with real worry.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Tony tells him as they part for bed that night. “About all of it.”

Peter looks surprised. “Not your fault.”

Except Tony kind of feels like it is.

***

Peter goes back to school on Monday. Tony starts drinking.

***

The thing with Beck was all over the news, and the parts that weren’t were recorded on EDITH’s drones. That, it turns out, is how Peter cleared his name—backup footage stored on secret SI servers kept him from becoming a villain in the public’s mind. It didn’t do a damn thing to protect him from losing the private life he had wanted to build.

The footage is also how Tony manages to recreate the whole fight, pulling together a BARF projection which fills the small lab located in the basement of the tower that’s been set aside for him. There’s something ironic about this: using Beck’s technology to reconstruct Beck’s crimes—though, really, Beck hadn’t been the project’s sole mastermind the way he apparently liked to claim; that had been one of the points of contention that got him fired in the first place.

Whoever gets the credit, the tech works wonders, giving Tony a full-scale, interactive vision of a fight he hadn’t even been alive for.

After the first run-through to see if it’s working, and the second to get the general lay of the land, it’s not Beck Tony focuses on, but Peter. He watches, repeatedly, as Peter falls from the sky, drones shooting at him on the way down; he has to remind himself that the kid’s not nearly as breakable as he appears—not to mention that the whole thing is a projection of the past. It doesn’t stop his heart from leaping up his throat every time.

He analyzes the patterns Peter used to jump from drone to drone, calculates the arc of his swings and the force of the impacts. Yeah, this happened years ago and Peter’s suit has been upgraded several times since then, but it hasn’t been upgraded by _Tony_. Not that he doesn’t trust Peter’s brain—he does, trusts it more than just about any brain besides his own—but even Peter isn’t him. Tony’s been working on suits for a long time. Surely he’ll find more ways to improve things.

As long as he’s locked away, waiting for someone to figure out how the hell he exists, he might as well be useful.

***

Being useful doesn’t explain why he keeps zeroing in on the moment when Peter, broken sign in one hand, hastily created explosive in the other, pauses to hype himself up, bouncing on the balls of his feet with nervous energy before launching himself into the fray.

He replays that moment until he has every detail of it memorized. It doesn’t tell him a thing about how to change the suit, but he can’t help himself. It’s so endearing, filling him with a desperate affection for the person behind the mask. Of course Peter is brave, Tony’s known that since he met him, but he hadn’t realized _how_ brave. He’d assumed the kid was pure daredevil, casual with his own safety and indifferent to danger the way so many of the other Avengers seem to be—a quality he envies, when for him every fight begins with his heart thudding in his ears until the adrenaline kicks in to block out the fear. But no, Peter’s different: vulnerable and scared and so human, and doing it anyway.

It makes Tony long to scoop him into his arms, hold him close, and promise the keep him safe.

What an empty promise that would be.

***

That night, he dreams about doing exactly that: pulling Peter into an embrace, whispering reassurances against his head. Pressing his lips to his hair, his cheek, his neck, biting into his soft skin, letting his hand trail down—

He wakes with a shout. _What the fuck_.

Just his subconscious reacting to the videos, he tells himself as he stumbles to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. That’s all.

***

Another moment becomes a favorite for repeat, this one a vehicle for self-recrimination: Peter, asking EDITH, “Is this real?” as he stares at Beck’s body.

He sounds so shattered, and his face, mask off, is the one Tony remembers from before. Everything about him is young: not just his face, softer and less defined, but the way he holds himself, less confident, even in victory. But when Tony pauses the projection, walking close to stare into Peter’s face as he looks at Beck’s broken body, he thinks he sees the first hint of sadness behind those eyes.

It is, it’s Tony’s fault, all the way back to Beck. He’d known the guy was a little cuckoo, he was just too distracted at the time to make sure SI kept track of him after he was fired. But worse than that is EDITH. He thought he was being so clever with that little note, but he should’ve left better instructions, made sure Peter understood that yes, of course, _of course_ Tony meant for him to have those stupid glasses. He thought Peter would understand that; thought he knew that he was the one person Tony trusted to step into his shoes. Clearly he failed in his messaging somewhere along the line.

Watching Peter dodge Stark drones is the worst part. EDITH had a protocol to prevent her from hurting Peter, of course—all his tech was coded not to go after his loved ones, when possible. But clearly Beck and his crew had found a way to overwrite it, and that is completely Tony’s fault. A weakness in his work, somewhere, a backdoor that never should’ve existed, and it almost got Peter killed.

His fault. It’s all his fault.

***

He recreates other fights as best he can, though none have the advantage of full drone footage. Runs through the worst things that’ve happened to the people he cares about since he died, doing his best to think of new ways to keep them safe, trying desperately to keep his mind from spending too much time reflecting on what his life is supposed to be now. Whatever he’s doing back, alive, at least he can use the time he has to try to make up for his mistakes.

***

He keeps having dreams about Peter. They don’t get less explicit. Very much the opposite. He tells himself it’s just his brain getting wires crossed, concern about the kid coming out in ways it shouldn’t.

But each time he wakes up rock hard and aching with a want that’s deeper than physical, it becomes harder to actually believe that.

***

After a few nights, he decides sleep is for the weak anyway.

***

“Again?” Rhodey asks, sauntering into the lab with a pizza in one hand and a large bottle of water in the other. He seems to have made it his personal mission to ensure Tony occasionally consumes something other than whiskey and coffee. “How many times are you going to watch this?”

“Don’t be jealous, Buttercup,” Tony tells him, waving away the image of Beck’s furious face. The world around him transforms from a building in London to just the lab again. “I’ve been working on upgrades for you, too.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Rhodey tells him, opening the pizza box and shoving it under Tony’s nose until he finally takes a slice. “How about you stop obsessing about things that already happened and focus on figuring out why the hell you’re back so we can get you out of this holding pattern. Is that too much to ask?”

“I’m working on that, too,” Tony lies. He has all the data the docs pulled from his body, has read every report, but all signs point to normal. Whatever happened doesn’t seem to have left any physical marks, and at this point he’s out of ideas.

Plus, maybe he doesn’t want to look at it too closely. Maybe he isn’t ready to be the one to discover his resurrection was a mistake or a threat, time-limited or dangerous—

Okay, definitely he doesn’t want to look too closely. He thinks that’s fair. He thinks that’s very, very fair.

***

When Rhodey leaves Tony sticks the pizza in the fridge and pulls out a beer instead.

***

A week in, Pepper sends him a file full of home videos from the last five years of Morgan’s life. The good news is that gives him something to do other than obsess over one Peter Parker. The bad news is that watching his daughter grow up in full-color 3D, almost-but-not-quite being there, makes something in him twist and crumple until he wants to cry, constantly.

Instead he drinks until he vomits, telling himself that the tears slipping down his nose as his roiling stomach empties itself are from nausea and hunger, nothing more.

(He’s never been very good at lying to himself, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try.)

***

He’s bent over the toilet for the third time in as many days when F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice—yes, F.R.I. is still around, and he couldn’t be happier about it—breaks through his drunken stupor to inform him Mr. Parker is calling.

He shouldn’t answer, but he does, croaking, “Pete! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hi, Mr. Stark!” Peter sounds unsure of himself, but chipper, as if he likes hearing Tony’s voice. Or maybe that’s just Tony projecting how much he loves hearing Peter’s. “Sorry, I know we don’t really call? But I just wanted to let you know that I’m back starting next Thursday for winter break. I’m going to be staying with May because she’ll kill me if I don’t but she’s cool with me sleeping at the tower some of the time, so I thought I’d let you know and if you wanted to hang out or something I’d…be down.”

Tony’s sluggish brain reels at the onslaught of words, rushed and jumbled, as if he has to get them all out in a few seconds before he loses the ability to speak. It’s a lot, but it makes Tony grin. That’s Peter, all right, older and maybe a little more jaded, but still very much himself. “Calm down, motormouth. Yeah, of course I’d like to see you. Movie night Friday?”

It had been their thing, before. They’d spend the day in the lab, Tony teaching Peter how to transform science into superhero success, Peter surprising him with insights and new angles, and then they’d wind down with a movie before Tony sent Peter back home with a cranky Happy, who always complained their nights ran too late.

“Cool, yeah!” Tony can hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “I’ll even let you pick the movie for once.”

“Wow. Peter Parker letting _me _pick the movie.” Tony is trying his best to mask how drunk he is, but the easy, joking delight in his voice isn’t just a front. Talking to Peter makes everything seem a little less awful. “I should’ve tried dying and being resurrected ages ago.”

There’s a pause, as if Peter’s not really sure how to respond to that joke. Then, with a seriousness Tony didn’t expect, he says, “You know, that’s how I felt about finally getting a hug.” He lets that statement linger for a moment before adding, lighter, “Anyway, sounds great! See you next week!”

He hangs up, and Tony leans over the toilet, suddenly feeling ill again.

***

On Wednesday of the following week, Strange summons him to the sanctum. Quite literally summons him, lifting him from the lab and transporting him across the city without warning, because who needs a heads up when the laws of physics are about to be turned inside out around them?

Tony, who’s had about six cups of coffee and not much else all day, wretches as he lands in a leather armchair. “I’ve already been convinced your magic show is worth the price of admission,” he grumbles, sitting back, pressing his eyes closed in an attempt to get the world to settle into place. “You don’t need to keep showing off.”

“But it’s so fun,” Strange replies dryly from Tony’s left. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, really happy to see you too.” Tony takes a few more deep breaths and then risks opening his eyes. He turns to see Strange standing over a large desk covered in open books. “Does this mean you’ve figured out what happened to me?”

“Nothing can be certain, but yes, I believe I have worked out what happened.” Strange has the smirk of someone who is pleased that he understands something complicated in a way no one else can. Tony knows that smirk, having used it many times himself. It really is obnoxious. “You were returned to the exact place of your death, a little over five years after it happened.”

“Yeah, I was there. It’s the kind of thing that tends to stick out in a person’s memory.”

Strange flashes him an unamused smile. “It wasn’t just a little over five years, actually. It was exactly the same amount of time those of us who were killed by Thanos were gone for.”

“Wait…exactly?” He hadn’t realized that. Why hadn’t he thought to check? He has no idea what it could possibly mean, but it’s the kind of thing he should have noticed, if he’d bothered.

He really hadn’t wanted to bother. More than he realized. Maybe he is good at lying to himself after all.

“Exactly,” Strange confirms. “Which led me to a theory. It’s hard to confirm without the stones, but my research suggests it wouldn’t be the first time, and it’s the only theory any of us has come up with that fits. Unless you have something you’re working on?” It’s said with a tone like a raised eyebrow. Tony wishes he had some brilliant idea to spit back to prove that tone wrong. Or any idea at all. He doesn’t.

“Care to actually tell me what that theory is, mystery man?”

Strange shuts the book in front of him with unnecessary dramatic flair, swooping through the room to take a seat across from Tony. “Simple. The stones—the soul stone in particular—interpreted your final act as a trade: your life to save the universe. But they decided the calculation needn’t be quite so harsh. They took the amount of time from your life that was the equivalent to the time they took from half the universe, but no more.”

“What?” The room is spinning too much to make sense of that. “But…I’m not even the one who brought everyone back. That doesn’t make sense.”

Strange waves the objection away. “The stones aren’t always so literal.”

Tony shakes his head, trying to clear it. It doesn’t work. “But…does that mean—am I just…normal?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been normal, Tony,” Strange says, and this time his smile seems almost genuine. “But yes, as far as we can tell, there’s nothing wrong with you, physically. You’re back, for good.”

***

It should be good news. It should be the best news. Pepper is ready, already developing a plan to introduce Morgan to the idea of Tony, setting up a time for him to see her next week. He gets to _see his daughter_, hold her, talk to her, be in her life again. He should be overjoyed, but what he feels is dread.

Because now there are no more excuses: he has to look the shambles of his life in the face and figure out how to pick up the pieces.

***

Picking up the pieces can wait. For now, he should celebrate. With Rhodey. With a drink. With five drinks.

“Tony, I’m very glad you’re back,” Rhodey says, eyebrows pinching together as he watches him down another round of the top-shelf stuff in a single long gulp. “But I think it’s time to cut this celebration short. You need sleep.”

Tony knows that look. It’s a look that says he won’t be able to charm Rhodey into changing his mind on this. So he agrees.

After all, once he’s in his own room, no one can stop him from keeping the party going alone.

***

He’s proud of himself for remembering Peter is coming over Friday afternoon. Even more proud that he trades alcohol for several cups of coffee and drags himself into a shower in honor of the occasion.

He picks out his best-fitting jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt that he thinks shows off his arms well, and then refuses to think about why he’s putting any thought at all into what he’s wearing. It shouldn’t matter. It’s just Peter. He’s not trying to impress him. He absolutely cannot be trying to impress him.

He does, however, want him not to worry, which is why he plasters on the widest smile he can manage when Peter enters his lab. He sweeps his arms wide. “Peter Parker, back from the war. Finals are like war, right?”

Peter laughs and, apparently taking the open arms as an invitation, throws himself into them, wrapping him close. Tony is startled by how good it feels to have his body, warm and solid, in his arms.

“They told me!” he gushes next to Tony’s ear. “That you’re really okay! That’s so amazing, Mr. Stark, I’ve been so worried, but you’re _back_, really, really _back _it’s so…” He trails off, nuzzling into the side of Tony’s neck. “It’s amazing.”

The kid probably doesn’t even need his powers to hear how hard Tony’s heart is beating, his presence overwhelming and wonderful. He feels lightheaded: Peter, and touch, and probably the fact that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

“Yep, you can’t get rid of me that easily.” He pulls out of the hug reluctantly, making sure his face doesn’t show that he feels like he could collapse at any second. “So, I’ve got us a whole movie screening setup upstairs. But first: I’ve been working on some ideas for your suit. Want to see?”

Peter’s face breaks into sunshine, and for a moment he looks like the bright, brilliant boy Tony had known, weight of the world lifted. “You _what_? You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Stark!”

“I know I didn’t,” Tony agrees, pulling up the schematics. “I wanted to.”

He makes it through explaining the upgrades running entirely off caffeine and the energy of Peter being there with him, looking at him like he’s worthy of awe. 

***

By the time they actually get to the movie portion of the evening, Tony is feeling weak and so queasy he can barely force down enough Chinese food to make a convincing show of being fine. He catches Peter looking startled and skeptical when he turns down a second egg roll, so he makes a point of changing his mind, then rips it apart with his hands, reluctantly nibbling on a few of the pieces.

But what really knocks him out is finding out Peter has already seen the movie he picked for tonight. _Robocop_. He remembers, very distinctly, that he hadn’t seen it back when he was sixteen. He can recall the conversation vividly. He’d made a casual reference; Peter hadn’t gotten it. He’d looked at him, appalled, and gasped, “You can quote every line from _Star Wars_, and you haven’t even _seen Robocop_? You have been failed in your movie education, young man. We have to correct that, ASAP.”

Except then—well, then they never did. And now apparently Peter has corrected it on his own. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but Tony has a hard time not sulking as they put the movie on, even though Peter assures him he loves it and is very excited to watch it again.

He also has a hard time concentrating once it’s playing. His head is filled with a faint buzzing, his mouth cotton-dry and uncomfortable. And most of all, he keeps finding his eyes drawn to Peter, curled on the other end of the couch, wrapped in a blanket with a bucket of popcorn on his lap—unlike Tony, his appetite is just fine, still a bottomless pit—eyes fixed on the movie, enraptured. He looks beautiful, bathed in the pale light from the screen.

Fuck. Tony had not meant to have that thought. Or had not meant to admit to himself he was having it, anyway. Wasn’t supposed to—Fuck.

He rips his eyes away, but that lasts for less than a minute before he’s glancing over again.

***

A third of the way through the movie Peter suddenly asks F.R.I.D.A.Y. to pause it. He turns to Tony, eyes catching his before he can pretend he wasn’t staring.

“Okay, what’s going on?” he says. “Are you okay?”

“I…yes?” Tony fumbles for words, unprepared for a sudden interrogation. “What? Why?”

“Your heart rate is way up, your breathing is uneven and shallow, and you haven’t been paying attention to the movie _at all_,” Peter lists, with a confidence that makes Tony’s traitorous heart beat even faster. Damn. He is pretty sure the kid wasn’t always quite this good at reading other people. Of course, he has had a few years to learn how to wield those senses like a weapon. It’s dangerous, and Tony feels pinned, too seen to deny the accusations.

“I’m not feeling that well,” he offers. It’s more or less what the truth boils down to.

Peter nods, and then scoots down the couch, suddenly invading Tony’s space, looming against him, breath warm on his face. That doesn’t help his heart rate situation. His stomach flips, not from nausea.

“I was wondering when you were going to say something.” Tentatively, Peter places a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Stark. I could tell all day.”

Tony tries to protest, but he can’t get the words to come out when they’re so obviously wrong. They turn into a stuttered sigh and a nod, admitting defeat. “Yeah, I—” He shrugs. How do you explain that you’re anything other than one-hundred percent grateful to be alive?

“I know.” Peter is so soft as he says it: soft voice, soft squeeze on his shoulder. “Trust me, Mr. Stark, I know.”

There’s something in the way he says it that radiates complete understanding, an understanding that goes straight to Tony’s core. He lets out a sob, short and sharp, but undeniable. Peter bundles him into his arms, pulling his head against his chest. “I know, Mr. Stark,” he repeats. “I know. Don’t worry, I know.”

***

Tony cries—big hiccupping gasps that make his cheeks burn with embarrassment—until he’s too exhausted to keep going. Too exhausted to even sit back up; definitely too exhausted to do anything other than make mild protesting sounds when Peter slips one arm under his knees, the other cradling his back and head as he fully carries him back to his room. It’s undignified and stupid and it makes Tony feel so safe. He wraps his arms around Peter’s shoulders and doesn’t let go.

Peter lays him out on his bed, tugs off his shoes, brings him pajama bottoms, which Tony struggles into while Peter, respectful, turns his eyes away. Tony doesn’t say he wouldn’t care if Peter looked. That seems like totally the wrong thing to say, now or ever.

But when he’s finally gotten himself into something resembling sleepwear—the shirt’s not changing, he’s accepted that, and he’s too tired to make it under the covers—Peter settles on the edge of the bed, hovering as if he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to sit there. Tony reaches out, placing his hand over Peter’s. He means to say thank you. Instead what he says is, “Stay.”

He doesn’t need superpowers to hear Peter’s breath hitch, or to feel the way the muscles in his hand go tense. “What?”

Fuck. No. What was he thinking? “Sorry, I just meant…for a couple of minutes. While I fall asleep. If you want. Or don’t, no big deal.”

“Of course. I can definitely do that.” Peter looks down at where their hands are touching, then back at Tony, eyes narrowing: barely, but enough to notice. “Or…” He swallows, and Tony can practically see him psyching himself up, is reminded with dizzying clarity of the video he’d watched so many times. “Or I could stay longer.”

His eyes meet Tony’s, and then he bites his lip. Unsubtle. He’s older, but still young enough to be that unsubtle.

“Kid…”

“Just to sleep,” Peter adds quickly. “I remember how hard it was to fall asleep, after…”

“Just to sleep,” Tony repeats. He scoots over, extending his arm. “It is hard.”

With a small, eager smile, Peter crawls into his arms. “It gets easier,” he says softly, as they settle into place, fitting together in the way two warm bodies overflowing with affection for each other always do. “It…it never stops being weird, but it gets easier.”

Tony sighs, bringing his hand to Peter’s hair. He brushes his fingers through it, enjoying how soft it is. He feels Peter shudder against his body. He wonders how loud his heart is for him, ear pressed on top of it.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do now,” he confesses. He waves, turning the lights off. Maybe this will be easier in the dark. “It’s not that I’m not glad to be back, but everything’s different.”

Peter nods against his chest. “You’ll figure it out.” Another long pause. And then, much quieter, “I can help you figure it out. If you want. I have some experience with it.”

Tony lets his hand drift down to Peter’s neck, gentle and possessive. “Yeah, kid. I’d like that.”

“Cool. It’s a plan, then.”

They fall into silence, steady breathing syncing up as the minutes stretch on. Tony drifts in and out, mind caught between the heavy reassurance of Peter’s body and the seductive call of unconsciousness. He’s only half there when Peter, softly, so soft it’s barely words at all, murmurs, “It doesn’t always have to be just sleep, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s heart leaps; Peter _must_ be able to hear that. “Hmm,” he hums in acknowledgement. “Let’s talk about that in the morning.”

“Okay, sounds good,” Peter agrees. Tony can hear the smile in his voice. “I’m really, really glad you’re alive, Mr. Stark.”

Tony gives Peter’s neck a soft squeeze in reply, finding, just barely, enough energy to say, “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lot of words that I wrote in very few hours given the nature of the exchange (which, for those who don't know, involved writing over the course of less than three days). I will not be offended (read: would find it very helpful) if you point out the inevitable typos I failed to catch.
> 
> Re-dated because it was anon for an exchange and now it has revealed. Sorry if you've seen it before!
> 
> As always, feedback is loved and appreciated.


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